


mise en place

by imperialstark



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Banter, Cooking, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Domestic Fluff, Flirting, Fluff, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22027987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialstark/pseuds/imperialstark
Summary: mise en place: the act of putting everything in its place. Or, Tony Stark is a human disaster when it comes to most things. Relationships. Taking care of himself. Opening up to people. Cooking isn’t one of them.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 34
Kudos: 198





	mise en place

**Author's Note:**

> this came to mind one day when i was upset and asked my followers to send me Tony headcanons. It was originally going to be a drabble and of course ended up being full blown fic. a big thank you to [greatkingunderthemountain](https://greatkingunderthemountain.tumblr.com) for sending in your headcanon on tumblr! here's the [headcanon](https://66.media.tumblr.com/5811ebfc629347696fae9314e1e02d36/8664e72879429c12-f9/s640x960/8357025a0424a9a2803b74885331e71ddbfe5573.png) in question.

“How much milk?”

“Stop when you feel like there’s enough,” Jarvis instructs, standing next to the dark haired little boy who can’t be no older than eight.

Inky brown eyes look up at him from beneath a mop of chocolate curls. “You’re not going to tell me what to do?”

“No,” Jarvis says. “My mother always told me to never measure anything. The food tastes better that way.”

The little boy wrinkles his nose. “What if you mess up?”

“Making mistakes is a part of the cooking process, Tony,” Jarvis says, stooping down to look him in the eyes. “Sometimes those mistakes make for the best meals. Think. How many meals do we have now that were made by mistake?”

Tony’s face lights up and Jarvis can practically see the little wheels in his head turning. Even with all that he had accomplished in his short life so far, Jarvis will perhaps forever be in awe at how fast the boy’s mind goes, Tony often jumping to (usually correct) conclusions in mere seconds when it took grown men hours to put the pieces together. 

“Chocolate chip cookies,” are the first words to leave Tony’s mouth. Jarvis chuckles, shaking his head. The boy’s sweet tooth is notorious in the Stark household, of course the first food that came to his mind would have been a sweet. 

“And what kind of world would we have without chocolate chip cookies?” a familiar voice asks teasingly. One Ana Jarvis makes her way into the kitchen, her heels _tap_ , _tap_ , _tapping_ , against the dark cherry wood floors. 

“An awful one,” Tony says seriously. 

“I’m more of an apple torte girl, myself,” Ana says, tying an apron around her waist. 

Tony’s eyes widen. “What’s that?”

Ana leans down to Tony and whispers conspiratorially, “It’s like apple pie, but better because it has cream cheese.”

Tony’s eyes grow round and pleading, “Ooh, Jarvis can we make that for dessert?” 

Really, how was he supposed to no to that face?

“Of course we can. Dinner first.”

Tony nods and with shaky hands, pours milk into the pot of flour and melted butter. He stops, stands on the very tip of his toes to peer into the saucepan, before pouring a little bit more. With a satisfied nod, Tony put the milk on the counter while Ana whips the mixture with a whisk. 

“Very good, sir,” Jarvis says with a soft smile. “You’ll be a master in no time.”

With flour in his hair and sticky palms, Tony launches himself at Jarvis who finds his arms full of dirty, sticky, boy-genius. Jarvis has never been happier.

It’s just Tony, Jarvis, and Ana in the mansion. They dine on macaroni and cheese and _do_ end up having apple torte for dessert. As Jarvis tucks him into his bed, the smell of green apples and cinnamon linger on the air. That night, Tony dreams of hundreds of apple tortes falling from the sky. He thinks they _might_ be just as good as chocolate chip cookies.

***

Ana passes on a beautiful summer day when Tony is fifteen, Jarvis following her soon after. Tony hangs up his apron and doesn’t pick it up again. Not for a while.

* * *

Being friends with Rhodey, Tony decides, is like lazing around in the sun after a storm. 

It had been a rocky start at first. 

“Are you lost?” Rhodey had asked him.

Tony had been sitting on his bed with his hands in his lap, unsure of what to do with himself. Howard and Maria had left just as quickly as they had arrived, both of their schedules occupied by SI business and charities and they were just oh so sorry that they couldn’t stay for long. With Jarvis and Ana gone…Tony had…he had no one.

And that’s how Rhodey had found him; a scrawny 15 year old who looked like he was 100 pounds soaking wet, sitting hunched in on himself as if he were trying to make himself smaller.

Tony had crossed his arms and straightened his spine, ignoring the sting of tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. Lifting his chin, he said, “Do I look like I’m lost?”

“You look like you should still be in middle school,” Rhodey had said dryly, tossing his dufflebag onto the bed the opposite of Tony’s. “What are you, like twelve?”

Tony had bristled, sadness quickly giving way to anger and if he was being honest with himself, embarrassment. “I just turned fifteen,” he had said through gritted teeth.

“You’re a baby!” Rhodey had said brightly.

“I’m not a baby!” Perhaps crossing his arms petulantly hadn’t helped his case.

Rhodey had nodded putting both hands in the air in surrender. “Alright, you’re not a baby. But for real, man, what are you doing here? Where are your parents?”

And just like that Tony’s mood had soured even more. He didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that _both_ of his parents had left him to fend for himself. A dark cloud had gathered over Tony’s head anyway.

Steeling himself, Tony had shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. Howard and mom are always busy.”

Rhodey’s brows had furrowed as he looked Tony over. Did he…did he not know who Tony was? “Howard…” Rhodey had said before his eyes widened.

“Are you…are you Howard Stark’s kid?” Rhodey had asked.

“Unfortunately.”

And there it was. The truth was out, not that Tony tried to keep it a secret much anyway. Sooner or later everyone was going to find out the great Howard Stark’s son was attending _their_ school and they’d all come oohing and ahhing before the day was over. Tony had closed his eyes and waited for the gasps and the questions and the sucking up-

“Dude, your dad’s a dick.”

Tony’s eyes had shot open and later on Rhodey would tell him that he had looked like a bull frog.

“What did you just say?”

“I mean no offense,” Rhodey had begun, sitting down on his bed. “But who leaves their 12 year old kid alone at college?”

“I’m fifteen!”

“Same thing,” Rhodey had said with a wave of his hand. “It’s a dick move.”

Within five minutes of meeting, Rhodey had thought he was lost, called him a baby, and told him his dad was a dick.

“Yeah,” Tony had said after a minute. “It was a dick move. It was a huge dick move.”

Rhodey had nodded seeming so sure of himself like it was a fact of life. The sky was blue. Humans needed oxygen to live. Howard Stark _was_ a dick.

“Seems like you’re stuck with me for a year, boy wonder,” Rhodey had said laying down on the bed languidly.

“Or you’re stuck with me,” Tony had said. “People tend to get tired of me.” He meant for it to come out as a joke but the words had sounded hollow to even Tony’s ears.

“Aw, I doubt that,” Rhodey had said. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“We’ll see,” Tony had said dismissively. Everyone always left eventually.

But judging by the glint that had entered the other man’s dark eyes, Rhodey wouldn’t back down without a fight.

***

Rhodey stays. Rhodey stays and Tony flourishes under his attention like a long forgotten toy finally being picked up and played with again. He stays when Tony takes too long getting ready in the morning.

“You can’t rush perfection, platypus,” Tony would say while gelling his hair.

Rhodey stays when Sunset Bain works her deadly magic on Tony and sinks her claw-like nails into his back, taking his dignity and Stark Industries secrets with her.

Rhodey stays when Tony gets drunk for the first time after Howard and Maria blow him off on the first family weekend of the school year. Rhodey, strong, kind Rhodey, shares his parents with Tony the entire weekend. Captain Rhodes and Mrs. Rhodes are just as sweet and kindhearted as their son and accept Tony with open arms. 

Rhodey stays and Tony loves him for it. And for the first time in a long time, Tony wants to cook. 

Their dorm building has a community kitchen that’s only ever used for late night experiments by the Chem majors. Tony swears he’s heard explosions from the kitchen before, but that doesn’t deter him. And he’s so _hungry_. 

Despite it being a prestigious school, the food at MIT, like all school sanctioned meals, is crappy and inedible. And after the whole debacle with Sunset, Howard had cut Tony off until further notice. If Tony saved up his measly check he got from working in the school’s post office, he could _probably_ have enough money to make an actual honest-to-god home-cooked meal for himself and Rhodey. 

Tony makes up his mind the week before midterms. He’s killing it in Calculus and Biology couldn’t be easier, but if he has to read one more passage of Hemingway’s bland, uninspiring prose, Tony’s going to rip his hair out.

“Don’t do that,” Rhodey says, voice slightly muffled from the pillow he has resting over his face. “It’s your best feature.”

“One,” Tony says throwing down _The Old Man and the Sea_ with perhaps a little too much force, as his desk rattles when the book lands. “That’s false. My ass is definitely my best feature.”

Even from underneath the pillow, Tony can tell Rhodey is frowning. “Gross,” Rhodey says.

Tony grumbles. His ass _was_ his greatest feature. But he decides to forge on. “That’s hurtful, honey bear,” he says. “Why are you being mean to me? Are you hungry? You’re only mean to me when you’re hungry.” 

Rhodey sits up and the pillow falls from his face and into his lap. “I’m starving, Tones,” he said. “You know what I would die for right now?”

“Me,” Tony says without hesitating.

“Close, but no,” Rhodey says and Tony loves him even more for that. “I want some candied yams. Don’t even need anything else with them.”

“Candied yams?” Tony asks. The name evokes feelings of joy and sugar and well, Tony’s always had sweet tooth. His interest is piqued. 

“My mom brought us some on Family Weekend, remember?“

To be fair, Tony doesn’t remember. All he remembers is basking in the fact that Rhodey’s parents actually seemed to _like_ him.

"How does she make them?” Tony asks and makes sure he’s listening carefully.

“She gets a couple of sweet potatoes and peels them and cuts them into slices. She lets them soak in some water then she throws them in a skillet with butter, sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Tones,” Rhodey groans and flops back them, his hands clutching at his stomach. “I’m gonna die if I don’t eat real food in the next twenty-four hours.”

Tony can’t help but roll his eyes. And Rhodey calls _him_ dramatic.

“Don’t die on me just yet, honey bear,” Tony says and reluctantly reaches for his copy of _The Old Man and the Sea_ , “if you die, who’s going to suffer through Hemingway with me?”

“The next poor sucker to be your roommate,” Rhodey says and gets a pillow to the face by courtesy of Tony.

“Living with me is a blessing!” Tony replies, feigning anger, except he’s grinning wide enough that his cheeks are starting to hurt and the effect is ruined.

Rhodey in retaliation throws both his pillow and Tony’s at Tony in quick succession. Tony yelps as both pillows make their mark.

Tony narrows his eyes. “Oh this means _war_ , Rhodes.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” Rhodey coos, “I’ll be sure to go easy on you, Tones.”

All thoughts of Hemingway and Santiago and that fucking Marlin flee Tony’s mind as he stands from his chair and makes a running leap towards Rhodey’s bed. 

Rhodey’s grin quickly melts from his face and is replaced with a look of utter terror as 120 pounds of pure spite land on him with the deftness of jungle cat. 

Rhodey let’s out a yelp before swearing and him and Tony are grappling each other. In their struggle, Tony wriggles the wrong way and both of them are tumbling off of Rhodey’s bed and onto the wooden floors of their dorm.

They hit the floor with a loud thud that surprisingly doesn’t have someone knocking at their door to see if they’re alright.

In that moment, Tony can’t help but think of what Howard would say if he saw them. “Quit being childish,’ he would sneer, his face turning down into a frown Tony was all too familiar with. “This behavior is unfitting of a Stark.”

But as Rhodey’s laughter, ringing brightly like a bell, warms Tony from the inside like the sun, he can hardly bring himself to care.

***

On the day of their last midterm, Tony makes three batches of candied yams. The first batch he made, he didn’t let cook long enough and the sweet potato slices crunch in his mouth and taste vaguely of carrots instead of the cinnamony confection Rhodey had described. His second batch, he overcooks, the potatoes turning to mush in the pan. Right when he’s ready to give up, angry tears welling in the corners of his eyes, Rhodey pokes his head into the kitchen.

The other man’s eyes light up at the bag of bright orange sweet potatoes mocking Tony on the counter. 

Rhodey doesn’t say anything, he just takes out four sweet potatoes and gets to peeling them. His hands are a blur as he makes quick work of the first sweet potato and starts on the second one like its nothing. 

Tony wipes his face, grabs a sweet potato of his own, and gets to work. 

The third batch is perfect, Rhodey tells him, practically moaning after carefully biting into a still steaming slice. Tony taking that as a good sign, digs in himself. His eyes close as the sweet, piquant syrup the sweet potatoes created floods his mouth and he has to agree. Candied yams may just push chocolate chip cookies down a spot on his favorite dessert list. Apple tortes are still first but candied yams, Tony decides, are damn close.

***

On a bitter, cold December’s night, Howard and Maria Stark are killed in a car crash along some deserted back road and something in Tony _cracks._

Rhodey and Obadiah stand beside him as they lower his parents' caskets into the fresh upturned earth and shield him from the view of the gaggle of reporters who had somehow made their way into the funeral and buzz around him like incessant flies. 

Tony pokes mindlessly at his food at the repast; the food tastes like ashes in his mouth. 

* * *

The next time Tony cooks, it’s on a plane halfway to California from Monaco. Pepper sits across from him, regal and golden in the sun’s rays parting through the clouds.

He’s not sure if it’s the knowledge of his forthcoming demise or something else, something more potent than he’s ever felt in his life, but she’s never looked more beautiful and the urge to say or do something has never been stronger.

And so Tony cooks. His head spins the entire time and his hands tremble as he flips the omelette and everything down to his marrow is screaming.

The omelette comes out blackened and burnt on one side and undercooked on the other and in that moment Tony hates the arc reactor with a ferocious intensity, wants to rip it from his chest, consequences be damned. 

Even though it saved his life and gave him Iron Man, he detests it for taking _this_ away from him. 

Tony swallows his pride and sets the dish down in front of Pepper anyway and tries not to fall apart when she asks him what it is.

* * *

It isn’t until Natasha points out that he’s shivering when Steve realizes he’s still cold. They had fished him out of the Atlantic not even three months ago and yet the chill of the ice follows him around like a ghost. For a moment, he thought the serum had malfunctioned, but SHIELD’s medics had reassured him that his body temperature was normal.

“Perfect, even,” the medic had said with what Steve supposed was a comforting smile.

Perfect. Just like the rest of him.

The future—the _present_ , he thinks, chiding himself—is just as strange, just as foreign as the feeling of warmth.

The food is strange and the people are stranger and he just wants to go back home. He never thought something as trivial as food would upset him; Steve was a child of the Depression. They were lucky if they had something other than boiled potatoes for dinner at any time of the week. 

He remembers the nights when their rations ran low and his mother would scrape whatever was left from their pantry and seemingly make a meal out of thin air. He remembers the hotdog-and-potato plates, and the creamed chip beef, and the thick sliminess unique only to egg drop soup. Sometimes when they craved something sweet, his mother would make fresh soda bread with dried currants and caraway seeds. 

Sometimes the food didn’t taste great, he’ll admit that. But it didn’t taste terrible either. It tasted _familiar_. It tasted like home. 

***

After living together for several months and bearing witness to many of the man’s brave (and stupid) exploits, Tony, Steve decides, is an enigma. He’s a contradiction, a logic puzzle that sits at the back of Steve’s mind and in his idle moments, he wants nothing more than to piece him together and make sense of the puzzle. 

Some days, when Tony smiles at him (one of his real smiles that lights him up from the inside out), Steve figures that he’s close to figuring him out. 

He’s still arrogant, especially on the battlefield, but whenever he watches Tony topple firewalls and HYDRA agents alike (often at the same time), he thinks that maybe Tony deserves to be a little arrogant.

There’s a sadness to Tony too. It’s one Steve recognizes because he can feel it in himself. It feels like the Atlantic Ocean flooding his mouth and sapping the strength from his bones. He sees it in Tony when he thinks no one’s looking. He sees it when someone brings up his past, the drinking, the parties, the carelessness and a rotten taste fills Steve’s mouth when he remembers what he said on the Helicarrier. 

“ _Stop pretending to be a hero_ ,” he had spat like a snake shooting its venom.

And part of him shatters like glass when he remembers what Tony had said; “ _Everything special about you came out of a bottle.”_

Steve doesn’t try to block that day from his mind. It would be doing a disservice to both him and Tony. They had gotten off on the wrong foot in the beginning, practically itching for a fight. And now…Steve doesn’t know what to call them now. All he knows is that Tony drives the cold away. With his blinding grin and his near manic energy and his big brown eyes, whenever Tony directs his full attention at him, it’s like he’s laying out in the sun.

* * *

Tony still confuses him, even with his warmth. Steve is especially confused when Tony asks him out on a date, beating Steve to the punch, and he’s even more so when Tony tells him to come up to his penthouse suite.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting when the elevator's doors open and he steps out, but it sure as hell isn’t Tony Stark in the _kitchen_. He knows a few details about Tony’s life, he’s solved a bit of the puzzle; he knew Tony had butlers and maids growing up, but not once did he think Tony knew his way around a kitchen. But he _does._

Tony’s a whirlwind, flitting from one pot to the other putting Steve in the mind of a little hummingbird flying from flower to flower in search of nectar. 

Steve stalks into the kitchen and is immediately hit with the scents of his childhood. Mutton and onions and potatoes and carrots and underneath the savory mix, he can smell currants and caraway seeds. 

Tony yelps and nearly drops the fresh loaf of soda bread he pulled from the oven when he sees Steve standing in the kitchen. 

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me,” the genius says and sets the baking pan down on the counter-top. Tony had decided to dress down. He’s wearing black jeans and a ratty AC/DC t-shirt that shows off forearms (not that Steve is looking, he’s a _gentleman_ , after all) and his hair is product free. Steve feels slightly overdressed in the dark blue button-down Natasha said matched his eyes and black slacks.

“Who said you could come early,” Tony says, but he’s all smiles. Steve can’t help but smile back as he shakes away his shock, his nerves and steps closer to the genius. 

“Would you believe me if I said I just couldn’t stay away?” he asks, sliding his hands into his pockets. 

“Flattery will get you _everywhere_ , Mr. Rogers,” Tony says and plants a kiss on Steve’s cheek. His skin burns where Tony’s lip touched him. He wants to feel that burn all over his body. “But this was supposed to be a surprise.” 

Now Tony’s pouting and look, Steve prides himself on being a gentleman and considerate, but he can’t help but lean forward and kiss the pout from Tony’s lips. It’s only fair after Tony kissed his cheek. Tony’s lips are soft and _warm_ , and Steve finds himself kissing him a bit harder, chasing that warmth, _needing_ it like he needs air.

Tony kisses him back, parts his lips and presses his small, lithe body against Steve’s. His arms wind around Steve’s neck and Steve’s settles his hands on Tony’s waist.

Eventually the need for air wins out and Tony’s pulling away from him. Steve wants to chase his lips but he settles for leaving his hands on Tony’s waist. They feel like they belong there. Likewise, Tony leaves his arms wrapped around Steve’s neck. 

Tony looks up at him with fondness and lust his eyes. His lips are swollen and pink and his chest heaves slightly. A very large, very horny part of Steve practically purrs in satisfaction that _he_ was the one to do that to the great Tony Stark. 

“As much as I enjoyed that soldier, I’ve got a heart condition. You can’t just kiss me breathless like that,” Tony jokes.

“But it was so fun,” Steve replies, playing along. 

“We also need to _eat_ ,” Tony says. “I spent all evening working on this meal and I’ll be damned if it goes to waste, Rogers.”

Steve knows when he’s beaten; “Fair enough, genius. I know that’s soda bread,” he says, gesturing to the loaf sitting on the counter. “But what else did you cook?”

“It was _supposed_ to be a surprise but _someone_ had to show up early and ruin everything.” 

“My punctuality is part of my charm.”

Tony arches a fine, dark brow, “You? Punctual? The man who slept in the ocean for nearly seventy years?”

It’s weird, being able to joke about what happened to him now. But with Tony it feels fine, like it’s all in the past. What matters is now; this place and the people who go with it. He misses Peggy and Bucky and his Howlies but Stark Tower, the other Avengers, _Tony_ , he wouldn’t give them up even if he had the chance.

“Okay, I _may_ not have the best track record. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I made Irish stew, soda bread and for dessert I was thinking of shortbread and Irish coffee?” Tony bites his lip and his eyes are impossibly wide as he looks up at Steve. “Is that okay?”

It’s probably, no _definitely_ , too soon, but in that moment, Steve Rogers thinks he could be in love with Tony Stark.

“That’s fine. More than fine, actually,” he says and he means it. 

Tony gives him that blinding grin and Steve wants to kiss him again.

***

The lamb meat falls off the bone. Steve dips his soda bread into the broth, lets it soak up the flavor. The sweetness of the currants and the savoriness of the stew are like a symphony of sensation in his mouth. 

Later on, he does the same with his shortbread, dipping the sweet buttery biscuit into his coffee. Tony takes a sip from his coffee, barely suppressing the grin of satisfaction that hasn’t left his face since Steve took his first bite. The taste of the whiskey melds sweetly with the butter of the shortbread and lights a fire inside of him in the best way.

Tony gets whipped cream on his nose and his lips and Steve kisses it away. Tony tastes like chocolate and coffee and cream. He’s never tasted anything sweeter in his life. 

They stay like that standing out on Tony’s balcony kissing and touching each other and simply _being_. 

“There’s this French saying,” Tony says, when he pulls away. His eyes shine in the dark of the night. “Mise en place.”

Steve knows a little French from his war days, his long, hilarious conversations with Jacques coming to mind. “Everything in its place?”

“Yeah,” Tony answers. “It’s mainly used for cooking. Have all your ingredients and utensils lined up from the beginning. Makes it easier in the long run.”

“Mise en place,” Steve repeats. The words flow off his tongue. “Works for a lot of things.”

“Like us?”

“Like us,” Steve agrees and Tony kisses him again. _Everything in its place indeed_ , Steve thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you guys for reading! y'all know the drill! comments, bookmarks, and kudos are not required but much appreciated it! this is probably gonna be my last fic of the year so happy new year you guys and can't wait to see y'all in 2020!  
> (p.s for more stony/marvel content, check out my [tumblr](https://imperialstark.tumblr.com)!)


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